


How To Keep Bees

by Blacktablet (Ishamaeli)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009) RPF
Genre: Author is going to hell for this, F/M, Graphix Sex, Kink Meme, Language, M/M, Minor Character Death, Psychological issues, RPS - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishamaeli/pseuds/Blacktablet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert goes through a terrible tragedy, Jude is there for him, and Holmes thinks Watson has quite lost his mind. (<a href="http://sherlockkink.livejournal.com/1302.html?thread=4373014#t4373014">prompt</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> The title has little to do with the fic – except when it has everything to do with it – and refers to exactly what you were thinking about. The medical stuff related to PTSD is partially researched but mostly completely made up. This was my first foray into writing Holmes/Watson, ever, as well as Robert/Jude.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Messieurs Holmes and Watson are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s brilliant inventions but public domain nowadays; Robert Downey Jr, Jude Law and other recognizable real-life people belong to themselves. The lyrics belong to Camber. Summa summarum, only the story text is mine.

  
**How To Keep Bees**

~

 _It's what we know  
It's to and fro  
And moving slow  
Just say you'll keep hanging in with me_

(Camber, ‘Improbable Upside’)

~

Jude watches as Holmes - no, _Robert_ \- fuck, he's not even sure about that anymore - fiddles with the nicotine-yellow tablecloth and then lifts pleading eyes to him. He makes a pathetic sight in the off-white hospital clothing, the too-large shirt hanging off his shoulders.

"Watson, my dear. Should they not—" Holmes pauses, biting his lip and taking a deep breath. "Should they not let me go, if I cannot convince them of who... Would you help me—That is, you are a doctor, and they allow you to visit..."

And Jude knows what Holmes is going to say before he says it. It causes his insides to twist with almost paralyzing fear, like a cold fire in the pit of his stomach, making him nauseous and shocking him so that he almost misses the quietly whispered words.

"As a last favour to an old friend, Watson, would you be kind enough to assist me in escaping in a more... permanent fashion?"

And Jude wonders how they arrived here.

~

It’s a sunny day in L.A. and Jude has just had a pleasant lunch with the Downeys – excellent chicken, stimulating conversation, subtle flirting with Robert – and is now standing in the foyer of the restaurant, chatting with Susan about the upcoming Sherlock Holmes sequel.

Robert ambles in, having paid the bill, and throws an arm around Jude’s shoulders as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I don’t know about you, Suse, but I could have fit in a little more dessert,” he drawls while giving Jude the filthiest leer in the history of humankind.

Jude blushes lightly and looks at his leather shoes, pretending to have no idea of how to counter Robert’s remark. Acting shy, he has noticed, seems to produce the best results: a darkening of Robert’s eyes and, just sometimes, a hitch in his breath (although Jude is not sure if he merely imagines that).

Jude can’t remember how long he has been this way; he doesn’t believe in love at first sight, so he will not go as far as to say that it was that first time when they met at the hotel bar that did it. If he is honest with himself, it probably wasn’t one moment in particular altogether that changed things but rather a slow, gradual slide – more like when one becomes an addict, or when one goes mad.

To be honest, he doesn’t think the difference is too great anyway, because the facts are the same: the sun rises, things fall down, and Jude, poor Jude is hopelessly in love with his out-of-limits co-star.

Susan tuts at her husband’s antics. “Too much of the sweet thing, love,” she says with an enigmatical smile and turns to leave the restaurant.

Robert laughs, says, “We’ll talk about this later, Judesie,” with the pet name wrapping around Jude like a solid, _very_ male body, warm and wet after a long shower. The mere sound of it makes his cock twitch in interest and him curse the fact that to Robert, this is all in good fun and nothing more serious than that.

Robert stays long enough to see Jude blush again in confirmation, then winks at him before leaving through the open door.

Jude still hasn’t managed to get his legs to move two seconds later when there is the terrifying sound of tires screeching, a woman’s surprised shout before the soft ‘thump’ of impact, and Robert’s anguished scream of “ _Susan!_ ” that’ll echo in Jude’s nightmares for weeks.

~

It was a small mercy, Jude tries to think, that the small crowd that gathered around the accident site prevented Robert from seeing the body of his wife.

However, knowing for certain that Robert saw the exact moment the drunk driver’s truck hit Susan because he lingered behind to chat up Jude makes Jude’s stomach lurch and bile rise in his throat.

He doesn’t think about that too often.

~

The quiet hum of the air conditioning is the only sound in the room besides their breathing. Jude sits in a chair next to Robert’s bed, keeps glancing at the clock – it’s almost time for the nurse to come and change the bedclothes – and at the sleeping face of the man in the bed.

Robert looks so peaceful even with all the hospital equipment around him that Jude dreads him waking up from his trauma-induced coma to the harsh reality where he’s a widower and where he will, probably for the rest of his life, flinch every time he hears car tires screech on the asphalt. Jude knows he himself still does.

To be fair, it’s only been six days.

Jude sighs and leans his forehead on the cool sheet by Robert’s hand, breathing in the scent of clean skin and disinfectant. He has been at the hospital all night again, reading aloud and talking about this and that until his voice goes hoarse in the hopes that Robert wakes up. The doctors insist that hearing familiar voices is important to coma patients and could help with their recovery, that in some way Robert might be aware of the words spoken to him. Because of this, many people have come by. Indio visited once with his mother, and even Mark stopped by to see how Robert is doing.

In the absence of anything more specific than “a tragic accident” and “Mr Downey Jr. has not been well after the death of his wife,” the tabloids have gone absolutely crazy, of course, speculating on Robert’s health and just why exactly he stayed in the restaurant for so long after Susan had come out. Apparently the most shameless of them have insinuated that Robert actually pushed Susan – _pushed_ –

Guy had to physically restrain Jude after relaying that bit of gossip to him.

The slow beep of the machine monitoring Robert’s heart rate picks up. Jude ignores the sound, knowing that it only signals a dream, a nightmare, an uncomfortable recollection rising to the surface in Robert’s mind before it sinks again. Frankly, as long as the thing doesn’t flatline or start playing popular ringtones, he doesn’t care.

“Watson?”

The first time Jude misses the word – it’s quiet and Robert’s voice is weak – but the second time he hears the words with perfect clarity because a trembling hand has descended on his head and fingers are roughly carding through his short hair.

“Watson? Where the devil are we?”

~

It’s been thirty hours since Robert woke up and called Jude Watson; twenty-nine hours and thirty-five minutes since Jude figured out that Robert actually, genuinely thinks that he is Sherlock Holmes; and twenty-eight hours, give or take, since Guy talked Jude into getting some rest in his own bed instead of the uncomfortable hospital chairs.

And now the bloody doctor in charge of Robert’s well-being won’t let him back in.

The thin man adjusts his glasses and crosses his arms, the sound of his sigh grating on Jude’s nerves more than he estimates is reasonable at the moment. It has to be said in his defense that he collapsed in bed and slept around the clock as soon as he got home, and most of the time after that he spent staring at a wall. He only took a quick shower and has barely eaten.

He is so not in the mood to deal with this shit right now.

“Mr. Downey is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, Mr. Law. Regrettably, it has caused him to believe that he is one of the characters he has previously played. An unusual but not unexpected coping mechanism of the mind.”

“I’d noticed.” Jude can’t help the dryness creeping into his voice.

“Then you have probably also realised that even though you are the only person he recognises so far, it would be dangerous to support his belief in the delusion.” When it becomes obvious that Jude isn’t following, the doctor sighs again, clearly impatient this time. “I’m afraid we have decided that it is not advisable that you spend time with him.”

Jude feels his eyes drop closed of their own accord as the words register, and leans a hand on the nearest wall, suddenly needing the support to digest what he was just told.

They are not going to let him see Robert.

Robert, who’s probably terribly scared right now, because for fuck’s sake, _the man thinks he’s an independent consulting detective from Victorian England_.

“But I don’t even have the moustache.”

A hundred different thoughts are flying through Jude’s mind – and yet this is the one that comes out; a simple statement that, to Jude, makes perfect sense the moment he says it. He can hear himself saying it, though, and it sounds different than it did in his head so he hesitates, replays the words in the quiet of his mind and realises that it also sounds childish, helpless.

 _I don’t even have the moustache._

For a second he hates himself for ever letting it past his vocal chords.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Law.” A stern look from the thin doctor. “Please, I must ask you to leave voluntarily. I am not above calling the security on you.”

He leaves the hospital fuming.

~

Hitting his fist on the wall doesn’t change anything. The rational part of Jude knows this.

The irrational part of him snarls with its teeth bared, furious at the doctors and the truck driver and himself for keeping Robert too long. He will always blame himself for Susan’s death because maybe, just maybe, if not for him, Robert would have been there to see the vehicle coming.

The rational part of Jude knows that it wasn’t his fault.

The irrational part of him howls in anguish and abuses the walls of his apartment some more.

~

Eventually Guy gets Jude back in. It takes almost four days, and a lot of money that Jude swears he’ll pay back and Guy insists he’ll take off Jude’s salary from the next film they do together, but finally Jude is standing outside the door to Robert’s room, his hand poised to knock—

And suddenly he’s not sure if he should. Maybe the doctors are right; maybe he’ll just make it worse.

The decision is taken from him when the door opens and Robert appears in the doorway. He’s dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a grey T-shirt, his hair uncombed and wild much in the manner of Holmes. He’s even sporting the three-day-stubble that is determined to turn into the beginnings of a beard.

“Watson!” he ejaculates in Holmes’s husky voice, sounding pleased. The deep brown eyes light up and a small smile curves his lips despite the fact that he’s obviously very tired, and then he’s stepping forward and enveloping Jude in a quick, warm hug before releasing him. “Mother Hen, I was thinking they would never let me see you again.”

Jude stares at Robert, realising that he’s been hoping for some sort of miraculous recovery in his absence but that there is none. Robert is still thinking that he is Holmes, his mind still forced into coping with the trauma in the most convenient way available. The only thing Jude hasn’t been able to figure out is why Holmes, why not Tony or Harry or…

Or maybe it’s for the best that it’s Holmes.

“They had to let me come, old cock.” Jude fakes a smile because he can do it, he’s an actor and he can do it, _has_ to do it, for Robert. “Somebody has to keep you in clean shirts, after all.”

“There is a barter system,” Robert mutters under his breath, amused, and lets him in.

(Jude stays for an hour, never finds the words to tell Robert that he really isn’t Watson, but he should have known better as he doesn’t need to; halfway through their meeting Robert suddenly gives him a sharp look and says, “You don’t think you are Watson, do you?”

And Jude is forced to agree.)

~

“What does this machine do? Really? Fascinating! And what if I—Oh dear, it seems to have—Now, Watson, there is no need for concern, if you’d just… get a nurse before… before…”

Jude convinces the doctors to let Robert stay up all night if he wants to after the incident with the IV tube and the liquid sedative.

~

Susan’s funeral is not a peaceful affair.

Robert fidgets next to Jude the entire time, discreetly whispering into his ear whether they couldn’t just pay their respects to the family and leave, to which Jude replies, “You _are_ the family,” and that manages to shut Robert up for the grand total of ten minutes.

Jude almost regrets that he agreed to take Robert to the funeral. Nonetheless, he was the only choice as Robert is infinitely suspicious of everyone else. The one time Hans came to express his condolences at the hospital was disastrous enough to convince Robert’s doctors that his forays into the outside world would be best done in Jude’s company.

There has been talk of a psychiatric hospital for wealthy clients in need of some privacy, but Jude only gets the news from Robert himself and isn’t sure he can trust everything he hears. Robert’s father is the next of kin now, and Downey Sr. hasn’t been around when Jude has been at the hospital, so he can’t exactly confirm anything.

When they exit the church, Jude is completely unprepared for what happens. He should have thought of it along with everything else, of course. They already managed to fool everyone who came to give their condolences by having Robert mutter something like ‘thanks’ and grit his teeth to make it look like he was on the verge of breaking down.

This, Jude thinks desperately, this is something he forgot to prepare for.

“Dad!” comes a cry from somewhere to their left and, before Jude has the chance to do anything but turn his head in the direction of the sound, a dark-haired teenager has wrapped his arms around Robert and is sobbing into his chest.

“Dad, I’m so—Where have you _been_ , I—God, Dad!” Indio’s eyes are red and his nose is running when he looks up at his father, and the boy looks utterly desolate in his black suit.

Robert, who has been standing stock-still until now, cocks his head and presses a shaky hand on Indio’s hair. “I’ve been unwell, son. But it’s going to be alright,” he reassures the boy with subdued optimism.

“You sure, Dad?”

Only the slightest hesitancy to Robert’s movements betrays the fact that he isn’t quite who he is supposed to be when he wraps an arm around Indio and clumsily pats him on the back. “Yes, I am. I’ll be away for a while but I will come back as good as new.”

The boy’s mother comes to take him away. Jude hears her exchange a few words with Robert before they leave.

“Watson,” Robert catches Jude’s attention when they are sitting in the back of a car, on their way back to the hospital, “that young man looked rather remarkably like me, didn’t he?”

Jude swallows his discomfort and nods. “Yeah. He did.”

“Most curious.”

Robert’s eyes are closed but his forehead is deeply creased when Jude flicks a look at him. He refrains from asking what the older man is thinking about, but is it out of courtesy or out of fear?

He isn’t quite sure.

~

Robert snorts and rap-tap-taps a rhythm to a song only he can hear on the yellow tablecloth. “While I certainly appreciate your concern for my well-being, Watson, I can assure you that there is no need to keep me in bedlam. I am not mad. If anything, I will _go_ mad here out of sheer ennui.”

Holmes’s drawl is clear in his voice. The doctors say that with such a severe trauma, it might take Robert a month to recover, maybe more.

Jude swallows, throat tight. “It is—it is for your own best, Robert.”

“I have already figured out seventy per-cent of the population, Watson,” Robert hisses through clenched teeth. “ _Seventy per-cent_. Of the whole population. Who cheats on their spouse, who drinks too much, who is a sexual deviant. I’ve got them all figured out right down to those who practice petty thievery. It has only been a week.” His eyes flash with something akin to desperation. “Have some pity on me, man!”

"The whole population? Of the hospital?" Jude asks instead, wondering if Holmes’ skills at observation could somehow bleed through to—

"No," Robert answers in all seriousness and settles back in the uncomfortable cafeteria chair made of plastic. "Of the city."

It takes Jude a moment – a surprised blink and seeing the amused twinkle in Robert's dark eyes – to realise that he's been had. “You bastard,” he utters and laughs before he thinks better of it.

Robert’s expression is satisfied and he launches into a lecture about the dangers of leaving him alone and bored, painting vivid pictures of disorganised conga lines and mad scribbles all over the walls of his room that the nurses will make Jude scrub clean because he is the one who wouldn’t take Holmes away.

Jude can’t help but listen and laugh some more. When a nurse comes to tell them that the visiting hours are over, he is reluctant to leave.

Robert looks devastated when Jude rises from his chair. “Watson…” he whispers, and the betrayal in his voice is too much for Jude to bear.

“I’ll be back next week,” he reassures his friend hurriedly and flees the cafeteria.

~

He doesn’t return until almost a month later.

~

"I really cannot comprehend why you still insist on being called Jude, old boy. One would think that you are the one who needs the tender care of the doctors, not me."

Robert pretends as if Jude hasn’t been gone for a month, prattling on about this and that, the observations he’s made on the staff, how he’s been spending his time, the time he figured out the pattern in what kind of food the patients are served.

He sounds painfully unlike Robert, exactly like Holmes, and oddly enough, he is something between the two. It is nearly enough to make Jude start weeping.

He grasps the reason to his sorrow with a flash of insight, long in the making, when Holmes shuts down for a moment to drink his tea. It is rather simple, really.

He wants Robert back.

"There now," Holmes says, dark eyes oddly soft as he gazes at him and leans over to pat his arm reassuringly. "No need to get all misty-eyed, Wat-- Jude. I'm sure that they'll figure out what's wrong with me soon enough and I will be back in—" He hesitates for a fraction of a second. “Back home with you in no time.”

Jude doesn't believe the clumsy lie but he smiles, because Holmes is _trying_ to humour him despite the fact that it is rather obvious he thinks Watson is the one who's lost his mind.

But Jude can see that the extended stay is taking its toll on Holmes, too.

~

 _And though the offer does sound ace  
I might miss my job, my place, her face  
What I do know is I just don't know  
Can't just go leaping into space_

(Camber, ‘Devil You Know’)

~

And now there is The Request.

Jude can’t stop thinking about it.

~

Can’t stop thinking that, as always, should Watson fail to provide Holmes with what he needs, Holmes will find other ways to obtain it.

~

Jude is drunk, drunker than he should be. He can feel the world spinning around him, and the furniture in his living room is dancing like a line of go-go girls with wooden feet and skinny little dresses made of tweed, stumbling when Jude gets in their way and tries to dance with them. He doesn’t quite remember the steps so he falls into the arms of one of the girls, the one wearing a skirt of the same fabric than his sofa.

She titters unpleasantly and Jude rolls away to greet his rug which for the moment is, fortunately, just a rug.

With enough alcohol running through his veins, he doesn’t have to think about anything, not about Robert, or Sienna, or Sherlock Holmes, or Susan or Robert or Robert or Holmes.

Holmes and his damnable wish to leave this world permanently if he can’t get out of the hospital.

There goes _that_ thought again, a sober snake invading the inebriated paradise that is his mind. Jude takes another swig from the bottle of cheap bourbon to flush it out. Instead he almost manages to flush himself out, out and straight into the deep chasm he feels has opened in the ground, right between his feet. On one side, Holmes is not in the hospital because he’s free; on the other, he is free and Jude is attending another funeral.

Jude knows he’ll have to decide soon, to jump before he falls into the chasm and everything goes to hell, but he needs a little more time.

Just a little more.

He takes another swig and ends up spending the rest of the night with his head in the toilet. In the morning he doesn’t remember a single thing that went through his mind the night before, and he is grateful for that.

~

They’ve been sitting quietly for hours again.

Neither of them speaks a single word; everything important has been said and Jude can tell Holmes doesn’t want to fill the silence that is left with inane chatter. They stare at each other until the nurse comes to tell Jude it’s time for him to leave and for Mr. Downey to attend his group therapy.

Holmes always flinches at the word ‘therapy.’

Jude can feel the chasm growing wider.

~

“Jude, baby,” Ewan sounds worried on the phone. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Jude claims, running a hand through his hair and squeezing his eyes shut tight to stop the desperation from leaking into his tone. “I don’t know.”

In truth, he’s always known what he will do.

~

"Rob-- Holmes." Jude reaches over the table to place his pale hand on Holmes's tanner one. "I'll help you escape. Properly, not…not like that. For real."

The other man smiles at him so brightly that he can feel his eyes watering. "My dearest Watson," Holmes's voice is like a lazy caress on his skin, "I knew you would never abandon me."

He says it with a hint of adventure in the curve of his lips, and the way he flicks a feverish look at Jude from under his long, coal-black eyelashes that cast shadows on his cheekbones in the warm afternoon sun steals Jude’s breath away.

And Jude, well, Jude really couldn't turn his eyes away from Holmes if he tried because he only got to see this side of the character a few times during the filming, and it fascinates him immensely. The man is brimming with restless energy, practically fidgeting in his undoubtedly uncomfortable chair, but he does not turn his eyes away from Jude for a second nor does he shake Jude's hand off.

"Quite ready to join me on another adventure then, old boy?"

He nods and attempts to smile back. Let Jude be Watson, for now.

He'll fix this later.

~

It takes surprisingly little to convince the head doctor that a small holiday would do Robert a world of good after two and half months in the psychiatric hospital.

Jude shamelessly uses Indio as an excuse, claiming that he’ll take Robert to meet his son and ex-wife, an extended weekend, because he really thinks that spending time with people who mean so much to Robert could jump-start his recovery. He talks and talks some more, and when the doctor starts to nod along to his words Jude knows he has won.

Two days later he barges into Holmes’s room in the middle of the day, surprising his friend in the middle of a nap.

“Watson?” Holmes sits up on the bed, rubbing his face and yawning, his clothes rumpled. “What the deuce are you doing here? You usually visit once a week, on Wednesdays.”

“I was thinking you could use a few days away from this place,” Jude explains cheerfully, smiling for the cameras he knows are hidden in the room. “I’ve made some arrangements for us to meet up with Indio, and maybe we can all go to the cinema together.”

Holmes protests against leaving for show but packs enough clothes for a long weekend into a worn-out bag. He also manages to slip in most of his personal effects – his glasses, a pocket watch Jude smuggled him, and a small magnifying glass Jude gifted him as a joke – without the security cameras seeing.

Jude drives his car out of the hospital gates with the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears and Holmes’s hand resting on his knee for support.

~

This is absolutely crazy, Jude thinks as they sit on one of the beds in their small motel room and play cards.

Holmes just smiles and reveals his straight flush, grinning, “Pay up, old boy,” before he helps himself to Jude’s pile of peanuts anyway.

The craziest fucking thing they’ve ever done, Jude muses and chews on his lip in agitation, including the time they play-acted a love scene between Holmes and Watson on the set when they thought everyone else had gone off to lunch, not knowing that Hans and Kelly had hidden behind one wall and were trying not to laugh their arses off.

The thought makes Jude feel a bit better, and he wins the next round.

~

“And you’re telling me that this thing can safely fly over the Atlantic Ocean?” The way Holmes’s hands tighten on the armrests of his seat betrays his nervousness where his voice is steady and mildly amused.

Jude sighs for the nth time, adjusting his own seatbelt before making sure Holmes has fastened his. “Yes, Holmes,” he mutters patiently, not wanting anyone else in the business class to catch on to who they are. Getting Holmes into the plane without anyone noticing was hard enough; he doesn’t want to deal with particularly over-enthusiastic individuals on top of that.

“Are you quite sure?”

“You trust me, don’t you?” Jude gets nothing but a quiet snort in reply but knows that Holmes is willing to take Watson’s word on it, even though for all the man himself knows they could plunge to their deaths ten minutes into the flight.

When the plane takes off, Holmes squeezes Jude’s hand in his, crushing the bones together as he instinctively presses himself more firmly into the seat. Holmes’s eyes are closed the whole time and when the plane finally stops climbing higher, he lets out a shaky sigh.

“I can only hope,” he says slowly, “that we aren’t going back anytime soon.”

Jude can promise him as much, and does.

~

The moment they step out of the Heathrow Airport and get into the heart of London, Jude knows that it was the right decision to bring Holmes here. The confusion from not recognising his mistress, who is now so modern, decorated with neon lights and a thousand traffic signs, makes way to sheer joy at meeting her again unexpectedly. Holmes actually laughs a little, staring wide-eyed at the tall buildings and the windows that glitter in the late-afternoon sun.

Jude can’t help but feel a little jealous, which is stupid because it is a _city_ , not an actual woman. But still…

When Holmes wants to go to Baker Street to see how much it has changed, Jude insists that they find a remote hotel to stay at first. He reasons that the street will probably be full of fans of the film and the books and they might be recognised. At Holmes’s mildly disappointed look, Jude suggests that they mask themselves before going.

The thought of getting to develop a completely new disguise for both himself and Watson from scratch is enough to distract Holmes, and he follows Jude into a cab with poorly concealed enthusiasm, prattling on and on about what would hide Jude’s angular Englishman’s features best, and how Holmes really cannot be expected to work with such poor tools, he absolutely needs this type of glue and fake facial hair and hats and scarves and coals and other things that Jude trusts him to remember once they hit the stores.

If Holmes keeps flicking looks at the window and the city-life beyond it while his mouth goes on, Jude doesn’t mention it.


	2. Part II

~

 _I've hatched up a plan  
Where we escape to somewhere better  
Not wait for parole  
We'll dig a hole and tunnel out of here  
Let's make our getaway_

(Camber, ‘Plissken’)

~

They never stay in one place for too long. Jude has packed everything valuable he owns – watches, cuff links, necklaces – and pawns them for thousands of pounds when they need more money. It will be enough to keep the two of them fed and clothed, living out of their suitcases in hotels of varying quality, for a long while.

Jude has to admit that Holmes is a genius when it comes to disguises. Rationally he knows this is because Robert has sat through many a make-up session, has played a multitude of roles and subconsciously stored all the information on how to look different, how to convince people of that you are someone you are not, but he can’t help but feel a bit awed. They check in as old men at one hotel, as young surfers at another, and neither the hotel staff nor anyone else is ever none the wiser.

For the first few weeks Jude keeps an eye on the tabloids. Large fonts scream that Robert Downey Jr. has gone missing and that his co-star has gone looking for him; that there is an illicit love affair; that Robert has merely been transferred to a more suitable facility, and that Jude has gone off to the Bahamas with a new woman. Jude marvels at how unimaginative reporters can be and at the same time is grateful for it, knowing that it’s one of the things keeping him and Holmes safe.

Speaking of Holmes, the man studiously avoids reading the headlines, only grunting noncommittally when Jude relies the latest gossip to him with an incredulous laugh and a shake of his head. After the first few times Jude stops doing this, realising that it makes Holmes uncomfortable to hear what is said about the actor everyone thinks he is.

Funnily enough, Jude doesn’t catch up to his own line of thought until later that day and nearly walks into a door because of it. Holmes merely raises an eyebrow at him and suggests that perhaps he is getting old and ought to get himself a pair glasses before he goes completely blind and has to hold on to Holmes’s arm wherever they go.

Too shocked to answer properly, Jude mumbles something about doing that all the time anyway and shrugs, giving Holmes a scrutinizing look. He does his best to see Robert behind all that has become to mean _Holmes_ to him, and with a feeling of dread realises that it’s much harder than before.

The next time Holmes calls him Watson they’re at the hotel and Jude abruptly snaps at him, sulking in his room for the rest of the day and refusing to tell Holmes the reason. He knows that the other man can deduce it anyway, but he isn’t about to make it any easier for him.

When Jude finally emerges for a shared breakfast the next day, Holmes gracefully refrains from referring to him by anything else but ‘old boy’ and ‘my dear.’

It doesn’t make Jude feel much better.

~

They can both feel the tension slowly building between them. It might be the close proximity that causes the too-long looks and less-than-casual touches; they are spending every day together from breakfast until they both go to bed, after all.

Jude studiously ignores it, ignores the darkening of Holmes’s brown eyes when he looks at Jude, a glass of bourbon or whiskey or whatever it is they’re drinking to relax that night completely forgotten in his hand. He also ignores the smooth triangle of skin revealed by the undone top buttons of Holmes’s shirt.

He avoids Holmes’s eyes because he knows that he would only see in them what he sees in the mirror if he forgets to guard his own expression (from himself). And, frankly, where it once would have been exciting to see Robert watching him with a look like that, it now frightens him slightly. Makes him shiver.

Most evenings Holmes abruptly chugs back his liquor at some point and retires with a barely muttered ‘good night,’ leaving Jude to sit alone with his thoughts until the wee hours of the morning, trying to make a decision and always, always failing.

~

One time Jude loses sight of Holmes when they are grocery shopping. He panics, then later yells at his friend when he returns because he’s been bloody worried out of his mind and scared and several other things he takes care to mention in excruciating detail, making sure that Holmes knows how Jude felt and how absolutely stupid it was of him to go off on his own like that.

Holmes takes it all quietly, standing with his back ramrod-straight and his eyes angry until Jude is done. He then thrusts something into Jude’s hands and stalks away, heading for their hotel of the week. Jude looks down to see that he is holding an old-fashioned cigarette case, slim enough to fit in the inner pocket of his coat, and remembers how the last time that they were sharing a cigarette on the balcony he complained about how his smokes are always crushed in the tight front pocket of his jeans.

He buys Holmes a mobile phone in return and teaches him how to use it. The man catches on quickly, too quickly for someone who has never seen the device before in his life, and Jude is painfully reminded of what really is going on here. He buries the feeling deep and goes on to explain Holmes the Internet.

That distracts them both for the next two days, and the argument is forgotten.

~

There is something about Holmes’s expression, Jude reflects when they are riding the London Eye, that makes him completely irresistible. It is so _open_ , like the man has nothing to hide when he stares at the city below them in awe and grasps Jude’s arm with excitement.

“Look!” Holmes shouts and points, his fedora almost falling off. “That’s our hotel!”

Jude smiles, content with watching Holmes who is, in his opinion, much more interesting than sightseeing a city that’s already familiar to him.

Holmes could become familiar, too, Jude realises, but he still can’t imagine Holmes ever becoming boring.

~

He should have known getting _this_ drunk was a bad idea but he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help wondering if somehow lowering their inhibitions would be enough to bring up Robert (even though the idea is rather ridiculous, as alcohol is probably the last thing to cure severe psychological damage).

Jude should’ve known it was a bad idea.

Or at least he should have bought better booze. Holmes tastes of cheap whiskey and red Marlboro cigarettes and the combination is foul, but Jude can’t get enough of it. He’s sliding his tongue against Holmes’s, their lips molded smoothly together like it was written in their genes that they should end up like this, momentarily forgetting everything else but the smell of cigarette smoke and the hot skin under their hands where Jude has tugged Holmes’s shirt out of his trousers and Holmes is holding Jude’s face between his rough palms.

The feel of Holmes pressing him against the wall in his hotel room is exquisite. Good _God_ , Jude can’t get enough of it, can’t get close enough, and he’s trying to pull Holmes nearer with fingers sinking into the soft flesh above his hips.

It isn’t until Holmes murmurs his name – _Watson_ – lips dragging against the stubble on his cheek, that Jude remembers himself, remembers Robert, and forcefully pushes Holmes away. “No,” he gasps, red lips swollen and the taste of the other man still on his tongue. “Holmes. No.”

In the shadows of the hotel room, Holmes tilts his head and studies Jude intently, not saying a word for long minutes that feel like whole ages. The yellow of the streetlight coming in through the window shines in Jude’s eyes like an artificial sun.

This is all artificial, he thinks vaguely.

“Alright,” Holmes murmurs eventually and leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him with the sound of an unloaded gun going off.

Jude feels vaguely disappointed for the time it takes him to draw one confused breath, tries to sort out what exactly happened. Then he swears under his breath and takes a cold shower.

~

The next morning when Holmes barges in and demands they visit Madame Tussauds, Jude has tidied up and there is no sign of the whiskey or the chairs that fell over when they were desperately looking for a vertical surface to lean against.

A strange look flashes in Holmes’s eyes only to morph into triumph when Jude agrees to go despite his raging headache. Later Holmes rubs the tension out of his shoulders and the headache dissipates, and Jude knows he’s been forgiven.

It bothers him that he’s not sure what _for_.

~

Holmes has not, to Jude's knowledge, taken up the use of the cocaine again. He doubts the man would hide it from his best friend; Holmes surely knows that Watson would disapprove of his habit, but that would not be enough to make him hide it. Never mind the difficulties of obtaining drugs in their current situation, as that isn’t what has spurred the change.

It is as if some innate part of Holmes knows that although the lack of stimulation for his mind is sometimes unbearable (or perhaps it is not, considering, and that is why he has not felt the need to turn to his seven-percent solution), the one substance that has brought him relief in the past is the one he shall never, ever again lay his hands on.

Jude thinks Holmes knows this, even if he doesn’t know why.

It makes him feel relieved.

~

 _We lie awake with brains in overdrive  
These odds and ends  
Tossing and turning lights no clearer path for us_

(Camber, ‘Odds & Ends’)

~

Jude has a moral problem.

Maybe, _maybe_ it is just his own imagination, but Holmes has been coming into Jude’s room only partially dressed – missing his socks, his shirt, one time even his trousers – an awful lot as of late. It can all be explained away by Holmes’s absent-mindedness when it comes to mundane things like clothing, of course. There is always a good explanation: he intends to borrow a shirt from Jude, he’s lost his own socks, he’s too excited about something to remember “such a menial task as pulling on one’s trousers”…

Jude can’t help but wonder.

It is obviously a problem because the more of Holmes’s skin, of his defined abs and strong legs and that darned navel Jude sees, the more he wants to jump the man, and consequences be damned.

He knows that it is wrong, fundamentally wrong. He knows that it would be betraying the trust that _Robert_ has in him, that it would be taking advantage in the worst possible way – but he also has a sinking feeling that there might not be much of Robert left to feel horrified about what Jude does or does not do.

And he can’t help but wonder.

They have been gone from their previous lives for months by now. Jude doesn’t follow the newspapers anymore and Holmes has adapted to the modern lifestyle with something akin to glee. He still occasionally entertains himself by shocking Jude with remarks like ‘I called for a chamber maid, do you suppose they are still the same as ever?’ and ‘This thong is surprisingly comfortable,’ but mostly he seems to be content with exploring London and the nearby cities with his loyal Boswell, sometimes even enjoying the fresh country air for a day or two.

Jude can’t say that he particularly misses always trying to avoid paparazzi, or the messy affair that was his relationship with Sienna, either. Life like this is… less complicated.

Yet he can’t help but feel that Holmes and he have reached a standstill. The longer they stay there, the more explosive the movement will be. The thing is, is that what Holmes intends to happen, or is it just Jude’s wistful thinking?

~

Holmes asks the question as if there is nothing out of the ordinary about it and, _per se_ , there is not. Given the context, however, it is rather alarming.

Jude stares incredulously at Holmes’s hopeful expression, thinking that the man has finally lost whatever there was left to lose of his mind, before barking a short laugh and shrugging. "Well, why not, Holmes. Once we’re somewhere safe and have the money and—why not. We could look into it."

It's not like buying a cottage in Sussex is the craziest thing they've ever done.

~

When the explosion comes and they are jerked into moving, Jude is completely unprepared for it.

~

It’s a quiet night like many others before. This time they’ve booked a hotel room with a double bed because they are a bit low on money despite Jude giving up his more expensive shades and leather shoes (because Holmes refuses to sell the pocket watch and although Jude bitches about it, inwardly he’s pleased). There was a brief fight over who would sleep on which side, but eventually they settled with Holmes on the right side and Jude grumbling about him probably taking up most of the bed by morning anyway, the restless sleeper that he is.

Outside it’s raining, a thunderstorm closing in from the north. Jude shivers where he lies on his back under the covers, the cotton not quite chafing his oversensitive skin. The blue-yellow shadows in the room seem to shift, painting everything with the sickly colour of a healing bruise. It has been a long while since Jude has felt so morose and he reckons it must be the awful weather dragging his mood down.

He turns over to tell his companion as much, to apologise for his listless behaviour earlier that day, but is stopped by the unnervingly solemn expression of Holmes’s that tells Jude he is the sole focus of the man’s attention.

Cautiously, Holmes leans over to touch the side of his face with a gentle hand, and Jude breaks.

~

It is kind of awkward at first. They are both fumbling in their haste, trying to get to hidden skin that is bruised by the light and eager fingers gripping too-tightly at first, then sliding over gently to soothe and to reassure, to remind that there is no need to rush, that they have been alone and waiting for something to tip them over for so long, they need not hurry now.

They are finally moving by standing still, breathing each other’s breath in a cheap hotel room, and it could not have _become_ any other way.

The silken feel of Holmes’s hair in his hands is nearly enough to undo Jude as he fits himself over the other man, his cock brushing against a flat stomach, and he lets out a groan when he feels an answering hardness hot and heavy against his thigh. He uses his grip to force Holmes to look him in the eye.

“Are you—?”

“If you ask whether or not I’m sure about this, old boy, I will roll over, kick you out of the bed and go find someone who is willing to bugger me without asking inane questions first.”

Jude can’t believe the insolence of the man.

Holmes is quiet for a second and rolls his eyes exasperatedly when Jude doesn’t move. “I’m afraid that I might also feel obliged to make derogatory remarks about your observational sk— _mmph_!”

The rest of Holmes’s witty repartee is swallowed by Jude, who drinks from him as if he were the very fountain of youth and Jude a man facing the evening of his life. For long moments he catalogues the sensation that is kissing Holmes, and to his pleasure notices that it is exactly as he remembers, and even better now that he doesn’t feel the slightest inkling to pull away.

Holmes’s long fingers wrap around Jude’s cock, and he bites the nearest available surface – Holmes’s shoulder, his neck, his full lips – while the fingers move up and down his length firmly but slowly. Holmes tightens his grip when Jude is deliciously close to coming and then whispers the words that nearly make him come anyway.

“Inside me. Now.”

Preparing Holmes with his own spit and pre-come shouldn’t feel as erotic as it does, Jude muses hazily with two fingers in Holmes who writhes and curses and is opening his bent legs wantonly, head thrown back as he pants with his lips parted. Jude leans over to kiss him sloppily, fucking Holmes’s mouth with his tongue, with a promise of what’s to come, muttering the filthiest fantasies into Holmes’s ear and crooking his fingers against his prostate.

“For God’s sake, get on with it,” Holmes orders in a strained tone, his cock leaking on his stomach and leaving a shiny wet trail on his tan skin. Holmes’s hands grapple at Jude in an attempt to get him closer, to get him to move, to anything, but they slide off his sweat-slicked back and return to twisting the bed sheets beyond repair.

Jude has mercy on Holmes, then; he replaces his fingers with the head of his full member, sliding it against Holmes’s opening a few times and reveling in the sensation that makes his eyes roll back and causes him to lean his forehead on Holmes’s shoulder for a few seconds to avoid embarrassing himself.

Holmes cries out when Jude simultaneously sinks his teeth into his shoulder and pushes the head of his cock into the tight, searing heat, his muscles straining from the effort to go slow, to make this last as long as he can.

It feels unbelievably good to have Holmes under him, around him, all over him with questing fingers and a steady torrent of encouragement pouring from his mouth, only shutting up when he’s being kissed or when Jude’s pulls out half an inch to push back in a tiny bit more, something that according to Holmes should be labelled torture of inhuman proportions.

The strange thing is that as Jude slides a bit more into Holmes who is all eager hands and stuttering mouth and involuntarily jerking hips under him, it occurs to him that he slides a bit more into Watson, too.

" _John_ ," Holmes moans desperately and Jude finds himself captivated by the dark eyes that simmer with liquid heat, bore straight into his soul. They see the desperation, the desire, the decision he has been hesitant – unable, unwilling – to make.

And then with sudden clarity Jude understands something that Holmes figured out weeks ( _months_ ) ago.

It is Watson who grasps Holmes's hips to steady him as he pushes the rest of the way into the delicious heat of his body; they are Watson's gentle doctor's hands that are morphed into something rougher by the need he feels, by something almost primal stretching out in his stomach and spreading its wings under his ribcage; and it is Watson who slowly pulls out of Holmes only to plunge in a little faster at the breathless command to “move, man, for Jove's sake!”

And Jude, for all ends and purposes, is lost in himself, lost in Holmes, lost in the uneven rhythm of them moving together as they strive towards completion.

He comes hard; the orgasm starts from the base of his spine and shudders through him, leaving him shivering and gasping for air that smells of sex and feels too thick to breathe. He barely even notices when Holmes reaches his own release with a soft sigh. His mind is scattered, and he only vaguely registers being rolled onto his back, cleaned, and tucked under the covers with a warm, sated body next to him.

It is Holmes who brings him back, repeating his name over and over again in his roughened voice, asking if he is alright.

They are Holmes’s arms wrapped securely around him when he starts to shake, and it is Holmes’s chin his head is carefully, gently, tucked under when he cries and doesn’t even know why.

~

 _Let's give it half a chance  
The world is open  
Circumvent our circumstances  
The door is open_

(Camber, ‘38th & 8th’)

~

Watson doesn't know how long they have been on the run.

~

Sometimes he remembers a man called Jude Law, someone who had four children and an on-and-off relationship with a woman whose face he can’t quite recall. But the memories of them are fleeting, almost like a dream; always chased away by the first rays of the sun that make him aware of his surroundings, of Holmes's warmth by his side under the sheets.

If the sun is obscured by clouds, or if Holmes has stayed up long enough to draw the curtains, Watson is derailed from this trail of thought by his lover’s muffled groan into the pillow and an incensed remark that the current hour is rather ungodly to be awake, isn’t it, John? Almost as if Holmes knows what bothers Watson when he is left alone with his thoughts and distracts him on purpose to keep his normally jovial mood from turning maudlin.

Watson isn’t sure he ever really liked this Law fellow, anyway.

~

There is one close call when they amble aimlessly in St. James Park arm in arm, enjoying the late autumn sunshine that is moderately warm despite that the nights are already cold and the wind can bite right through your clothes if you’re not careful. It’s one of those days when you’ve got nothing else to do but to break your fast slowly, sharing the newspaper, and then go out for a long, pleasant walk.

Someone shouts behind them, calling for Jude.

Watson can feel Holmes jerk slightly and lays a calming hand on his arm. “Come now, dear fellow,” he murmurs, eyes scanning the nearby street for a cab. “I’m afraid that the weather is wearing me down faster than I anticipated. The wind is being rather merciless on my leg.”

Neither of them mentions the fact that the only scars on Watson’s body are insignificant, too small to be any sort of war wounds, never mind the fact that he lacks a limp he should have but still has a cane with a silver top. Holmes merely nods lightly, pursing his lips. “You ought to have said earlier, my dear Watson—but look! Isn’t that a cab right over there?”

They hurry to the car, Watson waving his free hand to stop it. They slide in, Holmes sitting in the back, and the driver gives them a questioning look.

“That feller,” he jerks his head back in the direction of the man running towards the cab. “Are we waiting for ‘im?”

“He’s been… bothering us,” Watson lies smoothly with the right amount of annoyance, and the cab driver gives a small nod before stepping on the gas. The unknown man is quickly left behind, waving his hand before turning away with an obvious curse.

“Thank you,” Holmes calls from the backseat. “It would’ve been rather unfortunate, should he have caught us.”

“Not a problem, sirs. Always happy to help.”

Watson sits back in his seat with a small sigh of relief and makes a mental note to tip the driver generously once they get to the hotel.

~

Eventually, (it had to happen sometime), they run out of money and goods to pawn.

~

“Rachel?”

“Jude!” Her voice sounds so shocked and happy, he feels almost ashamed. “Oh my gosh, Jude! Where have you _been_? Robert’s missing and everybody’s saying that you’ve taken him and nobody’s seen you since May!”

“Rachel, I need to see you.” They agree to meet at a quiet café in Islington, and when Watson puts down the payphone, he prays that Rachel will do as he asked and not tell anyone.

He doesn’t want them to be found.

~

Crowds make him nervous these days, Watson realises with a start when he stands in the corner of a café, dressed as a middle-aged construction worker. Too many people watching him, too many people who could—

And there is Rachel, sitting alone at a corner table.

He sees a curt expression come over Rachel's face when he makes eye contact and starts for her table. She grabs her bag, ready to leave, not recognising Watson under the disguise Holmes has carefully crafted until he says "Hello" and then she just stares, her manicured hand clutching the black Gucci so tightly Watson fancies people can hear the expensive leather creak to the other side of the café.

“I need your help,” Watson says, and then Rachel’s arms are around his neck and he’s breathing in her scent, something flowery with a hint of citrus underneath, and he realises that she is crying.

Rachel thinks Watson has gone insane but agrees to help them, saying that she’s got a lot of money lying around that she doesn’t know what to do with and that if it makes them happy, she’ll do it. She also begins to relay the latest news, to sum up how everyone is doing, but Watson quickly holds up a hand to stop her.

“Don’t,” he chokes out, not quite capable of explaining why he doesn’t want to hear it, but fortunately Rachel understands and smoothly changes the topic to what kind of a place Watson and Holmes want to live in.

This sparks a memory in Watson’s mind, and they hold a lively discussion for an hour or so, agreeing on the details, and finally Watson rises from his seat to clasp hands with her.

“Thank you,” he says with utmost sincerity, holding his worker’s hat awkwardly in one hand, regretting that he must get back before Holmes gets suspicious. “We… I’m sure Holmes would be grateful too if he knew. I didn’t tell him, for—for obvious reasons.”

“Of course,” Rachel replies, and there are tears in her eyes again. “Anytime.”

~

Rachel helps them make a deal on a small cottage. It is more of a house, to be honest, with indoor plumbing and a privy in the back, but it’s old and heated by two large masonry stoves and there’s a garden in the backyard. The closest neighbours live two miles away, which is just fine with them.

Holmes inspects every room of the house with his hands clasped behind his back, making thoughtful noises and pausing in doorways. Watson knows better than to follow him around when he acquaints himself with their new home, so he begins to write a list of everything they need to buy, starting from furniture and working his way up to cooking utensils and thick rugs.

He’s debating on whether to paint the sitting room brown or light beige when Holmes enters the kitchen, lips pursed and shirtsleeves rolled up. His hands are smeared with a black substance that reaches up to his elbows.

“Holmes!” Watson works his jaw, attempting to get any words out without significant success.

“Nothing to worry about, Mother Hen,” Holmes hums in a self-satisfied way and wipes his hands on a kitchen towel, carelessly draping it over the tap once he’s done thoroughly blackening it. “I was merely checking the fireplace in the upstairs lounge. I think we need to employ the services of a chimney sweep before winter if we do not wish to freeze to death in our bed.”

“I… Well, actually I was thinking that too. Nobody’s lived here for a year.” Watson gives Holmes a careful look. “How do you like it?” And they both know that the house isn’t the only thing he is talking about.

“This is where we are to stay for… how long again?”

Watson swallows, sets the list down on the counter. “The rest of our lives if you want to,” he says, feigning casualty, and doesn’t even have the time to yelp before Holmes has him trapped against the counter and claims his lips in a possessive kiss.

“Yes,” Holmes whispers, pulling back but staying close enough so that his words tickle the flushed skin of Watson’s lips as he speaks, “I do want to.”

They end up christening the kitchen earlier than planned.

~

Holmes has an on-going quarrel with the neighbours who live south of their cottage. He claims that the couple, especially the old woman, is on a mission to foil Holmes’s plans of growing their own vegetables in the backyard garden.

Watson objects, reminding him that walking four miles just to sabotage someone’s vegetables sounds a bit implausible and saying for the thousandth time that if Holmes only read the instructions on the seed bags—

But Holmes doesn’t listen, and when another patch of carrots fails due to too rigorous watering, Watson takes over the vegetables and leaves the neglected flowers to Holmes.

Soon all sections of their little garden are blooming.

~

Watson believes himself to be the luckiest man in Britain; especially so when they’re visiting London for the first time in ages and at one point Holmes expresses the wish to go home, saying that he prefers a quiet night with Watson, playing the piano and reading, to the clamour of the city.

‘Home’ in Watson’s ears is just another word for love, and when he looks Holmes in the eye, he sees that the other man thinks the same. Later that night they are back in their cottage, Holmes coming undone under Watson’s hands with a few choice words tumbling out of his mouth, Watson straining to hear them as Holmes strains to say them, both distracted by the post-coital haze that is quick to settle over them.

They both sleep better than in a long while that night.

~

Holmes is indulging in his post-lunch slumber on the upstairs settee. Watson, knowing that wild horses couldn’t drag Holmes awake until at least an hour has passed, is in the kitchen, keeping an eye on their scarecrow and thinking that perhaps he ought to change the hat on its head; the weatherworn fedora has certainly seen better days, and it appears that the birds are all well acquainted with it by now.

He starts for the front door, intending to pick up the mail while he’s out, but stops when he spots an anomaly in the quiet life they lead. There is a young man standing on the paved path that leads to the door, obviously hesitant to come closer.

A young man who looks so much like Holmes that Watson gasps, wondering when his friend has had the time to—And then he remembers, the name surfacing in his mind like a piece of driftwood washed ashore, polished by seawater and pale as bone.

 _Indio_.

~

 _And when you feel like dying  
When all your hope gets stripped away  
This is this is how you heal  
This is where you stay well_

(Camber, ‘Sad One’)

~

"Is he--," the young man swallows. "Is he happy?"

"Yes," Watson replies after a moment, moves to squeeze Indio's shoulder in a comforting gesture but pulls back when the youth flinches.

"Don't. I thought. That. Maybe, if I found you but didn't touch anything, I'd think it was just a dream, you know?"

Watson nods. "You thought it wouldn't hurt so much," he murmurs with sudden insight, remembering how he refused to even clasp hands with Robert during the first few weeks. “I think you are right."

Indio looks relieved and a bit embarrassed, running a hand through the mop of black hair that is so like his father's. "Yeah, I could tell myself I'd just dreamt the little cottage in Sussex, but... I'd know. Because the worst thing about it is not knowing. And, I'd know."

"Now you do." It is not quite a dismissal, but the young man who looks so much like Holmes he could be his son takes it for one and Watson feels relieved.

Indio moves to leave, stops in the doorway out of the kitchen and fidgets a little, turning around and stuffing his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket before taking them out again.

He is twisting his thin fingers together, staring at the floor with a thoughtful frown, and Watson decides to take pity on him, absent-mindedly thinking that he can’t blame Rachel for telling Indio. He probably would have done the same. “You want me to relay a message.”

"Yeah. I'd tell you to tell him... But you can't, can you? You won't." The accusation nearly isn't there.

Watson shakes his head.

Indio leaves and he doesn’t come back.

Nobody else comes after him.

~

"Watson," Holmes breaks the companionable silence one warm summer evening when they are sitting side by side on the veranda, "I think we should look into bee-keeping."

"Bee-keeping?" Watson repeats in a surprised tone, feeling a twinge somewhere under his ribcage. He resolutely ignores it. "Whatever for?"

"Without cases, I need something to keep myself from falling victim to boredom."

Watson refrains from pointing out that it’s been years since Holmes last worked on a case, and that gardening and philosophical debate with Watson – among other things – have seemed to fill his days quite nicely. Instead he shakes his heads and sighs, resolving to someday learn to understand the workings of a man like his Sherlock Holmes. "And you thought of bee-keeping."

Holmes nods, reaching to pat Watson's tweed-covered knee without looking, communicating a hundred words in that simple gesture and another hundred in the tone of his voice when he speaks. "I should like that. It sounds... appropriate."

At this, Watson glances at him sharply. "Does it?"

"Very much so, yes."

Even after a decade there is only so much Watson can glean from Holmes's expression - from the set of his jaw and the shape of his eyebrows, the way he is very carefully not looking at his lover - when the man doesn't want Watson to find out what he is thinking.

"Bees," Watson confirms one last time.

Another quiet nod.

"Alright then."

( _Bee-keeping_ , Watson muses to himself later as the pale blue light of an early summer morning is glowing through the curtains of their bedroom, illuminating the sleeping form of Holmes who has one long arm thrown over Watson’s chest. _He wants to take up bee-keeping._

Probably the craziest thing they've ever done.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to:  
>  **teapotcrumpet** , who bent my commas into submission, made sure that I didn’t abuse the characters too much, and made me blush with her enthusiastic fangirling. <3 I couldn't have had a better beta.  
>  **jenexet** , who listened to me ramble about this fic on MSN at ridiculous o’clock, tolerated my general ADHD-ness whenever it was concerned, and (eventually) forgave me for making her read Holmes/Watson and RPS in the same fic and like it. She's my muse. <3


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